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HE hedge on the left, and the trench on the right,

And the whispering, rustling wood between,

And who knows where in the wood to-night

Death or capture may lurk unseen.

The open field and the figures lying

Under the shade of the apple trees—

Is it the wind in the branches sighing.

Or a German trying to stop a sneeze?

Louder the voices of night come thronging,

But over them all the sound is clear.

Taking me back to the place of my longing

And the cultured sneezes I used to hear.

Lecture-time and my tutor's " handker "

Stopping his period's rounded close,

Like the frozen hand of the German ranker

Down in a ditch with a cold in his nose.